


No Matter the Cost

by LacePendragon



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Gen, POV Second Person, Present Tense, Resurrection, Self-Harm, came back wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-13 21:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16480316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LacePendragon/pseuds/LacePendragon
Summary: How far would you go to bring someone back to life?How for would you go to turn foe into friend?





	No Matter the Cost

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written November 28th, 2017. Reposted October 31st, 2018. Happy Halloween.

This is the price you pay for resurrection.

You come back, broken.

You come back, fractured.

You come back, wrong.

In the basement of a room that tastes of ash and dust, you awaken with a scream that burns your throat just as her fire had. You awaken with a scream and you cry and you sob and you claw at yourself, at the darkness inside you, until the blood coats your fingers and streams freely with your tears. You scream and you scream and you _scream._

And then you stop, everything stiff and terrible and _hot._ And a man you’ve never met before stands in front of you and tells you that you’re alive, that the magic of science – and he chuckles at that, at some joke you don’t understand, you _want_ to understand – has struck once more and you _live._

But you do not feel as if you are alive.

There is an emptiness in your chest where once there was a fire. There is a chasm in you where once there was a heart. A _soul._

You stare at this man and you fear to ask questions, but you can see the answers gleaming, shining, _beckoning_ in his eyes. He grins and it is just as gleaming. And you fear what he has done.

You fear what you’ve become.

“Beautiful, aren’t you?” he asks you, and you do not speak. You are not sure if you can. Where once your throat was whole and smooth, you feel something crackling with every breath.

And are you even breathing? Or is that just reflex at this point?

_What have you become?_

“Now, this isn’t the first time we’ve done this, but it’s certainly the first time it’s worked so… well.” A pause and the man’s grin turns to a sly, scheming smile. “You should have retained all your memories in the process, my dear. Now, tell me, what’s the last thing you remember?”

You think. But it is so very, very hard to think. Everything blurs and rumbles and hisses in your mind until you can no longer withstand the pressure. You claw at yourself again with nails too sharp and too long to be your own.

You fall.

Beacon. Initiation. Ren. Nora. _Jaune._ Love and happiness and family. A place to belong that wasn’t your first and only home before that day.

And all of it fading as the tournament drew to a close.

The truth of the world. The truth of your teachers. The truth of it all.

The fear. And, oh, the fear permeates you, it cleanses you as it taints you, as it washes you away while bringing you back. Over and over and over again.

You breathe. But you do not inhale. Perhaps the two are not one in the same.

You breathe ash and dust.

You fly through an elevator.

You die.

You live.

Or do you?

This is the price you pay for resurrection.

“Now, let’s get you cleaned up and show you to Salem, shall we?” says the man. Phrased like a question but it is not. You do not remember everything, so much is faded and blurred and shredded like so much old meat on older bone.

But you remember enough to know not to speak.

And you are still not certain if you can.

He has you stand and you begin to see what you’ve become. Pale flesh of a human body fading into the black of a Grimm, nails elongating into claws until they are not hands but _weapons._

And your feet do the same, putting you on legs that have you slightly hunched, but even hunched you are taller than you were in life. Your legs are as black as your hands, and perhaps as dark as yourself, now.

You catch your reflection in the mirror. You see black eyes with red irises. You see fear.

You see nothing.

You are pushed ahead and shown to this Salem. Made to bow and told what to do.

Your memories are fading. You cling to them – to a girl in a red cloak, to a girl with golden hair. To a haughty voice that insists you are greater than you want to be. To the soft murmurs of a boy making tea. You do not know all their names. But you hold tightly, just the same. As tightly as you can.

You remember _her._ The woman who stands before Salem. The woman who killed you. Your chest burns where your heart used to be and you know what lingers there, now.

It is your death, clinging to you as if it has actual power, actual presence.

And doesn’t it?

“You’ve done well, Watts,” murmurs the woman known as Salem. Her hands look more human than yours. You stare at them instead of her eyes, which are monstrous.

And are your own, as well.

“Can we train her?”

“Her memories won’t stay for long.”

You refuse to forget Jaune. You refuse to forget Cinder. You refuse to forget the faces and voices of people you do not know the names of. And you are scared the two names you have left will fade as well.

What was your name?

Who are you?

Does it even matter anymore?

“We can work with that, I assure you. Take her to training. It appears we have a new member of our court.”

“Come.” He does not give a name nor a title to you. You are not worthy of one. “Let us walk.”

This is the price you pay for resurrection.

You are trained. You are broken.

You are already broken. This is not new.

But they find new ways to break you.

Cinder, who burns your skin and hisses when the burns fade.

Watts, who throws monsters at you until you can barely stand.

Hazel, who puts his weight and his experience behind every fight.

Tyrian, who cries as often as he laughs and uses a stinger that looks like it was pulled from a Deathstalker to attack you with his poison.

Nothing stays. Your skin heals. Smokes and heals. You do not bleed. You only smoke and heal. You scramble to remember to fight but the fighting memories push away the others and you will _not let go of them._

You will not lose what is left of your humanity.

And, despite this insistence, and despite Watts insisting that you are mad, that you should let go, that you can never be human again – and oh, how he taunts you. And oh, how you long to take your claws and run them through his soft, fleshy neck. – you become better.

You fight off Tyrian; wild as he is, he has a pattern. You find it. You strike. He reminds you of… what was her name?

She had cat ears and a ribbon. She read books while you did forms.

You liked her smile and her eyes. Her smile was rare. And that was before _gold_ only met the oncoming of poison and pain.

You fight off Watts. He is too callous, too pompous. He underestimates you time and time again. You defeat his monsters and keep pushing forward.

You strike when he does not expect it.

He _bleeds._ And you feed, and you feed. And you are pulled from him but the blood stays on your lips and on your fangs and on your tongue. And you hiss and you scream and you want _more._

A prick on your leg and you are asleep.

You awaken in a room with one door and no exits. You curl in a corner and wait for death.

It comes.

She wears a red dress and smiles. She becomes with a hand.

You fight Cinder and you lose.

You fight Hazel and you win.

He is big and he is fast but he is not perfect. Blind spots can be found in all mortals, after all. And you are not sure what you are, anymore. But you are not a mere mortal.

He reminds you of two boys with great swords, of a girl with fiery hair that was sometimes blonde and sometimes flame. He reminds you of a room smelling of sweat and blood and happiness.

But you do not know what any of this is, nor what it means.

You strike him down and do not feed. Your blood lust is satiated.

For now.

You fight Cinder and you lose.

You fight Cinder and you lose.

You fight Cinder and you lose.

But you are not supposed to beat her. Only to compliment her.

And then, a break. A mission. Someone gave you missions once. You and others.

Who were they? One was a boy with a golden smile.

But that is all you have left.

A boy with a golden smile and the names of the people who call themselves your masters but truly want you dead.

Or, more dead than you already are.

Your mission is to infiltrate a bandit camp. To use you, and Salem looks at you and she smiles, as _leverage._

You no longer know fear. You only know drive.

You do not object.

You cannot.

For you do not have a voice.

And in the morning, or whatever is morning in this hellish landscape that is more your home than anything before ever was. Except maybe for the boy with the golden smile. You leave. You leave with the others.

They do not acknowledge you. And why should they?

You are no longer human. You are no longer worthy. You do not know your name.

But you know, now, what you are.

You are a monster.

A monster without a voice, without freedom, but a monster heading to the land with the boy with the golden smile.

And you know Salem means to kill him for something. But you do not know what.

You love to fight. You know a fight awaits in the bandit camp.

You know you will be punished if you run.

But what is punishment to a dead thing? To a monster without a heart? Without a soul.

All you have left is the boy with the golden smile. And you will not let him die.

You will run.

You will fight.

You will find him.

You will warn him.

By any means necessary.

That is all that is left of you.

A boy with a golden smile.

And a warning.

This is the price you pay for destiny.


End file.
